


Going Once

by tattooeddevil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooeddevil/pseuds/tattooeddevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's fascinated by the boy with the guilty eyes, but he can't try and and find him. He's a slave after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Once

The gravel is digging into his knees, and he can feel the rough rope tear into his wrists every time he moves even just a finger. The midday sun is overhead, beating down on him and the others, leaving them thirsty and aching. The clothes on his body smell so bad, he has to fight the gags wanting to rip free from his throat and stomach, his eyes watering with the stink of them. But that’s not the worst of it. Not by far.

The worst are the eyes. The piercing gazes of the men, women, and children looking at him, hundreds of different emotions from one set to the other. Pity, disgust, wonder, anger, disdain, sadness, lust, danger. All directed at him and the others beside him.

And guilt. He had jolted when the guilty eyes met his. Guilt isn’t something he is used to, not directed at him. This isn’t the type of society who feels bad for keeping men like him, let alone shows that guilt to someone like him. Yet this man - no, boy - is looking at him like it is somehow his fault he’s on his knees here, now. It isn’t.

He’s never known any other life, was born into this. His mother had lived the same life, gave birth to him when she was only fourteen. He was never meant to be anything but this. On his knees on a dirty street, covered in brands, waiting for a new one to be added. Waiting to be sold again.

“Going once! Going twice! Sold!”

Beside him, a young blond boy gets hauled to his feet roughly. When the blonde makes a disapproving sound, he gets slapped across the face and shaken by the shoulders. Two men grab the boy by the arms tightly and drag him to his new owner. The new owner is a rich man. Custom-made suit, leather covered cane, and a top hat. The man nods sharply at the two men holding the blond boy, before turning on his heels and walking to a carriage waiting nearby.

When he looks back at the crowd, the boy with the guilty eyes is gone. In his stead, the woman with the disgusted eyes and her children with the wondering eyes stare at him. He quickly averts his eyes. Should they be his new owners, he shouldn’t be making any eye contact. He’s learned that the hard way with former owners.

Then his number is called. 35-418. His mother was 35-416. 35-417 hasn’t existed in a long time. He lifts his head obediently, like he knows he has to do, keeping his eyes on the ground. He hears a few voices calling out numbers, amounts, and he tunes them out. He doesn’t care how much he’s worth; it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to know if he’s worth more than his mother or not.

“Going once! Going...”

“I’ll give you twenty gold pieces if I can take him now.”

The square goes eerily silent at the strong voice. He can’t help but raise his eyes and look for the person that just offered to pay more than what most people make in a year to take him out of the bidding. The auctioneer is doing the same, an annoyed frown between his eyebrows, unhappy with the unusual disturbance. He must have forgotten that he gets ten percent of those twenty gold pieces should he agree.

Just then, the boy with the guilty eyes steps out from the crowd. Except, he’s not a boy anymore. He is now a man, tall, rich, and handsome. Deep green, guilty eyes locked on him. Hand held out, clasping a pouch, motioning for the auctioneer to take it. The auctioneer does so, hesitantly, before checking the contents quickly. He then steps back to his desk and confers with his assistant in hushed voices. The guilty eyes never leave him all throughout.

He dares not to look away, for fear the man will disappear. Again. He doesn’t understand how the boy is now a man, it is just not possible. The eyes are the same though, guilty, remorseful. As if he feels responsible. It doesn’t make sense.

The auctioneer breaks the spell between them when he raises his voice and addresses the man.

“Though extremely unusual, I will comply with your request. However, twenty gold pieces will not be satisfactory. Thirty will.”

Without blinking, the man with the guilty eyes reaches into his overcoat, extracts another pouch and hands it to the auctioneer.

“Now untie him and take him to the Roosevelt Hotel, room 62. Unmarked.”

He swallows. The man’s voice is harsh, not at all like his eyes. It doesn’t bode well. The request confuses him however. No slave goes to a new owner unmarked. Unless the new owner wants to do it himself. Shit. He swallows again, watches the man walk away, follows the shape of him until two men drag him up on his feet and start moving him towards a carriage. He goes obediently; he still remembers what happens when he struggles.

The carriage takes him to the Roosevelt Hotel in the better part of town. The two men bring him in through the back door, ushering him up a flight of stairs with harsh pushes and pulls until they get to a green door with the number 62 embellished on it. One man knocks loudly, the sound echoing through the empty hall, ringing in his ears in time with his pounding heart.

He is scared. Afraid of what he’ll find on the other side of the door when it’s opened. Afraid of his new owner, and what he wants from him. Nothing’s going the way he is used to and he is out of his depths completely. He tries to stop his hands from trembling with apprehension, but it is futile. Nothing stops the shaking, until the man with the guilty eyes opens the door and fixes his gaze on him.

“Sam.”

He frowns in confusion. Who is Sam? The man looks taken aback, shocked maybe, but not by him. He looks like he hadn’t wanted to utter that name, Sam. He composes himself quickly and gestures the two men in.

“I asked him to be untied. Why is he not untied?”

One of the guards mutters an apology, and hastily unties his bonds. He then hands the ropes to the man with the guilty eyes and steps back. His new owner takes it and orders the watchmen out of his room.

“Forget you were ever here; he is mine now. Leave.”

Free from the bonds, he rubs his wrists lightly. He fixes his eyes to the floor in good slave manner, but the man with the guilty eyes forces his head up with a hand under his chin.

“My name is Dean.”

Dean. The man with the guilty eyes is called Dean. It fits him. It sounds honest, strong. It frightens him a little; still unsure of what to make of Dean and everything that is happening. Dean must see this in him, because his face softens and he smiles softly.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you. I looked for you everywhere!”

He tilts his head in question. This is not how he had imagined it to go. He knows how owners treat their slaves; he knows the proper etiquette when it comes to meeting your new owner. This is not how it should be. He feels his heart beat speed up, panic rising in his stomach. He searches Dean’s face for answers, but gets none. He tries shaking his head, hoping Dean will take it for the question it is. Slaves should not speak to their owners unless they are ordered to.

Dean furrows his brow in thought until he seems to make a connection and smiles reassuringly.

“Don’t worry, I won’t brand you, I won’t. I do not own you. You are not my slave. Do you understand?”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. This is not what is supposed to happen. This is not how it is supposed to go.

Dean’s brow again wrinkles, he’s thinking again. He then glances around the room before picking up a towel and holding it out. From his spot in the room, rooted still by the door, he dares not to reach out and take it. Slaves do not use towels so expensive. Dean shakes it at him a little.

“Take it. Get cleaned up. Wash.”

Dean’s friendly tone, much more in line with his still guilty eyes, cajoles him into taking a hesitant step forwards and he accepts the towel from Dean. Unsure of what to do next, he waits. After a few long moments, Dean seems to realize this and jumps into movement. He very gingerly touches his elbow to steer him towards the bathroom and pushes him inside. When Dean starts to close the door behind his back, his confusion is complete and utter. Slaves do not get privacy.

He stands there, in the small room, staring at the towel in his hands for what seems like days. He’s sure Dean wants him to get clean, wash himself, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do it alone. Maybe Dean will come in and do it for him later? When later doesn’t come, he starts taking his dirty rags off and turns to the tub. The water is warm to his touch, and he almost sighs with relief. He is used to cold water, dirtied by other slaves before him.

He lowers himself into a sitting position in the small tub, and uses the cloth draped over the rim to wash the grime off himself. He takes extra special care in washing between his legs, front and back; he wants to be as clean as possible for his new owner, especially such a special one as Dean. Unusual as he is, Dean is surely going to want him to offer himself up for sex. All owners do. It never occurs to him Dean might be different in that aspect too.

He has no clean clothes to put on, and he assumes Dean will want him naked anyway, so he even forgoes a towel around his waist and makes his way back into the room. Dean is sitting on the bed, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. He’s crying. Again unsure of what to do, he walks up to Dean, and sinks to his knees in front of him. He takes Dean’s hands and places them on his hips, before pushing himself up against Dean’s chest. A clear sign of sexual surrender, just like he was taught.

Dean shakes his head vehemently however, and pulls his hands back.

“No. No, please. You don’t... You don’t understand...”

He searches Dean’s face, takes in the red-rimmed eyes and the puffy lips, bitten raw. Not at all the way a man with a new slave would look. He expects anticipation, lust, want. Not sadness. Not still that guilt. Dean stares back at him, emotions swirling in his green eyes and written all over his face. Then he is pulled against Dean’s chest again, but not in a sexual way. Dean’s arms are strong and tight around him, in a close embrace. Dean’s face is buried against his neck, nails digging into his skin.

“Thank god, Sammy... I thought I’d never see you again. Oh god, Sam...”

He’s not sure what is going on, but Dean’s arms around him keep him tight against Dean’s chest, unable to move away. Dean keeps on murmuring in his ear, hot tears wetting his neck where they fall from Dean’s cheeks. It’s a long while before Dean calms and pulls away to gaze at him with those guilty eyes he now knows so well.

“Look at you... Look at what they did to you... I am so sorry, Sammy. I’m so sorry!”

He gathers Dean must mean him by “Sam” and “Sammy”, but he doesn’t understand why. He hasn’t had a name in many years. It is the last straw of confusion that breaks his abiding to the rules. He speaks.

“I don’t... My number is 35-418.”

Dean’s eyes go sad and wet again, his face crumbling. Dean takes one of his hands and rubs the palm with almost reverent intensity. He shakes his head with an sad chuckle.

“I finally found you and you don’t remember me. Is it really too much to ask to get my brother back?”

He watches as Dean yells the question at the sky, unsure of what to make of the gesture or the words. Brother? He’s afraid to speak out of turn, but nothing’s been as he expected so far, so he can be forgiven for not sticking to customary ways, can’t he?

“Have you lost your brother?”

Dean shakes his head again and what sounds like a sob escapes his throat. It makes something lodge in his chest, seeing this man with the guilty eyes so sad. He should not be sad. He says what he thinks might make Dean feel better.

“I lost a brother once. But I deserved it. I doubt you deserve it. You should not feel sad.”

Another sob comes from Dean’s chest before he slides off the bed, and to his knees. He is now pressed up against Dean, Dean’s hands around his face, voice soft. Eyes pleading with him to understand, believe. Dean spins a tale of loss, sorrow, and grief. A story so deeply sad, he has a hard time believing it, if it weren’t for the one thing Dean says that makes him believe.

Dean talks of demons and angels. Of losing his little brother Sam to them. Of angels gone rogue, kidnapping Sam and bending time to hide him. He talks of finding Sam, bartering his own life to get him back. Of learning his little brother had been led to believe he was someone who he wasn’t, in the worst possible way. In a time he never lived in before. Sold, used, abused as a slave. That was so similar to himself he could almost believe it, if it weren’t for the supernatural explanation of how.

The explanation of time bending and future worlds make his head spin, but then Dean says something that makes him take pause and really listen to what Dean is saying.

“... a little boy, just like me. My eyes, my nose, my mouth. God, it was me! A young me, hundreds of years in the past, but me. I followed him, figured past me would be just as likely not to stray far from you as the real me is. I was right.”

He shakes his head within Dean’s hold. No, it couldn’t be. The boy with the guilty eyes. So similar to Dean, yet so much younger. Dean urges him yes though, and he stops and thinks again. The boy with the guilty eyes, so similar to Dean.

“Listen to me, Sam, please. Let me try and explain, okay? Please, just listen. That boy? That boy is me. He’s about ten years old. I asked him a few questions - gave him some money - and he said he was your brother. Your big brother. I said I didn’t believe him, you look much older than him.”

His older brother? But how? His brother is dead. 35-417.

“But then the auctioneer called your number and said your age. Seven, he said. Seven, Sam. I realized everyone here sees you as a seven-year-old, the angels bended even that. They created this whole new world where you and I exist, and when they transported you here, you replaced the Sam here. They don’t know I am here, so I did not take over my body. The little Dean, he said that he was taken from your mother when you were two, to work as a slave. Boy are sold to be slaves by the age of five, old enough to lift and...”

Dean swallows, but he knows what Dean was going to say. Sexual acts.

“I am your brother, Sam, your big brother.”

He swallows. Again. His mind is a whirlwind of confusion, emotions, denial, and disbelief. But Dean looks so honest, speaks so true, and he wants to believe Dean, if only to never be a slave again. He realizes this is his chance, his way out and he should take it. But should he take it with a mad man? Who knows if Dean is speaking the truth? How can he know?

As if Dean can read his mind, one of Dean’s hands leaves his face and reaches into a pocket in his jacket. Dean pulls out a small stack of papers, and presses them to his naked chest.

“Look at these. They will prove what I am telling you. Please.”

Dean’s tone is pleading, and he can’t help but take the papers from him. When he turns them around in his hand to look at them, he sees images of people on them, like in a portrait painting, but these are not painted. Images of Dean and some big black thing with wheels, although it looks nothing like a carriage. And then he suddenly sees his own face. Next to Dean, smiling softly at whoever made this image, an arm slung around Dean’s shoulders.

“That one was taken at a lake near Chicago. Two years ago, in 2012.”

He raises his eyes to meet Dean’s. 2012? That’s not possible. Dean smiles sadly, as if he again knows what he is thinking.

“I lost you a few weeks later. You just disappeared on me. Two years, Sam, it took me two years to find you. Please, please, believe me.”

He looks at the pictures again before pulling away from Dean’s embrace and lowering himself to sit. Something deep inside his mind is starting to stir, something that tells him he needs to think and listen carefully. He can’t quite grasp it, but it is enough to get him to consider everything that is going on.

He’s a slave. A sex slave to rich men. He’ll never be anything but a slave. And now, there’s a man offering him an out, something better. True or not, Dean seems to believe it himself, and he doesn’t seem dangerous. Everything will be better than being a slave.

“What will happen?”

Dean smiles brightly at him, as if he has already agreed to believe Dean and accepted his story. It makes something in his chest expand, relax, as if all he wants is to make Dean happy. Put that smile on his face every day. It shocks him a little, but he’s heard about slaves falling in love with their owners. Maybe this is the same. Or maybe it’s just being thankful to Dean for helping him, saving him.

“We’ll get you out of here. Get you back home. Where you belong.”

Home. He hasn’t had a home in a long time.

“What about my brother? You said you found him.”

Dean nods, but it is with a smile.

“He won’t know anything is different. Once you get out, the other you will stay behind. The people here will still have a version of you here. You will still be here, but also... not.”

It makes no sense at all, but he guesses he can’t afford to be heroic to a brother he hasn’t known for so many years right now. He has a chance to, for once, think of himself and do better for himself. He should take it.

“What will happen to me?”

“You will be back with me. I don’t know how much you will remember of this place, but don’t worry. You’ll be fine, I’ll be there to take care of you. I got you.”

_I got you._

In the end the decision is made, easily and quickly. He doesn’t fully believe Dean, but the alternative is staying where he is, living the life of a sex slave. Dean gives him clothes to wear, fabric he has never seen before. They’re jeans, Sammy, you wear it all the time. He doesn’t, but he doesn’t tell Dean that. He doesn’t want Dean to look sad again.

He closes his eyes when Dean tells him to, and with a flutter of noise and a lurch in his stomach, he comes to in a different place and time.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy, right here.”

“What happened?”


End file.
